she thinks she could get used to it
by Take this to Heart
Summary: His fingers are long—the type of fingers that a girl notices; the type of fingers that makes a girl wonder what kind of patterns they could sear into her skin. She averts her eyes and realizes that Stiles is looking at her (or rather her in his sweater) again.
1. Chapter 1

_a/n: So I spent all day yesterday surrounded by fanfics and fanmixes and fanvids and I I just couldn't NOT write a little story for Stiles and Lydia. I hope you guys like it! _

_I don't own Teen Wolf or any of the lovely characters!_

* * *

The knock on her door comes late at night, just as Lydia Martin is settling into bed.

She's tempted to ignore it and burrow into her soft purple sheets, but then it comes again—more urgent this time. She sighs in annoyance but rolls out of bed anyways, lest it be some sort of pack emergency. Without her (and maybe, possibly Stiles) they'd all just be a bunch of bumbling idiots.

She can see a shadow pacing on her porch through the frosted glass cut-out on her front door, and she quickens her strides a little bit, pulling open the door and finding—

"_Stiles?"_

The sight of him, haloed by the moonlight is enough to bring every feeling, every memory she's been trying to suppress slamming back into her. He pauses mid stride and turns to face her, his eyes taking in her appearance slowly, from her messy bun to her silky sleep shorts to her bare feet like she's the best thing he's ever seen. She feels kind of like she's been punched in the stomach.

He swallows hard, his eyes lingering on her in some sort of numb disbelief. "That's—That's my sweater."

She looks down, feeling herself blush at the sight of the over-sized sweater she'd borrowed from Stiles earlier that week. She'd completely forgotten she'd put it on—but really, she's allowed to sleep in whatever she likes. And his sweater smells good.

"I was cold," she lies.

"You look…" He lets his eyes drift up to her face. "You look adorable."

Her cheeks flush even more and she breaks eye contact, feeling completely frustrated with herself. She hasn't blushed this much since sixth grade—but then again maybe that's because sixth grade was the last time anybody ever called her _adorable_.

She presses her lips together and looks back up at him. "Why are you here, Stiles?"

There's a part of her that believes (or hopes) he's about to say something completely cheesy and romantic—the kind of stuff they say in movies—but then he murmurs: "My dad got a call about a gunshot one street over."

Her heart sinks (just a little bit). "And you want to know if I heard anything? I didn't—"

"No," Stiles interrupts. "I—I wanted to make sure you were okay." The November wind picks up and swirls dead leaves around his feet. Goose-bumps prickle over Lydia's skin. She shivers.

"Here, come inside," she says, holding the door open wide.

He does, and when Lydia shuts it behind her, the quiet is almost overwhelming. Stiles has his hands in his pockets and he's just looking at her in the dim light of the hallway lamp, something flickering in his brown eyes that she doesn't try and decipher.

It's like this every time they're alone together now; which is, admittedly, not that often since Lydia spends a lot of her time avoiding situations like this.

The last time they were completely alone together was two weeks ago and Stiles had a panic attack and she kissed him and she felt…_things. _

"Lydia?" Stiles asks. He's looking at her expectantly.

Shit. "What?" she asks, straightening up and crossing her arms over her chest. She wishes she would've taken an extra minute to put on a bra.

"Are you okay?" he asks again.

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

"Good. That's good…I mean I figured you would be, but you never know." he rubs his hand over his face. His fingers are long—the type of fingers that a girl notices; the type of fingers that makes a girl wonder what kind of patterns they could sear into her skin. She averts her eyes and realizes that Stiles is looking at her (or rather _her in his sweater_) again.

"What?" she asks, a little harsher than she intended to. "Haven't you ever seen a girl sleep in your sweater before?"

He raises his eyebrows. "No."

An equal shot of affection and annoyance shoots through her. Stiles is always saying things that surprise her—mostly because he's honest. And sure, that's endearing, but Lydia likes to be in control. She doesn't really like surprises. That's why her "relationship" with Aiden was so convenient and the kiss with Stiles was so…_not_. Not that any of that really matters anymore.

"Aiden and I broke up today," she tells Stiles for no real reason other than to fill the silence. Silences are bad. Especially when Stiles is involved, because Stiles likes to look at her.

He nods. "Yeah, I heard. Are you—you know, alright with that?"

"Of course I'm alright. _I _broke up with _him_," she tells him, though she doesn't tell him why. "Besides we were barely dating anyways."

"So why date him in the first place?"

She stills, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Maybe she shouldn't have brought this subject up. "I wanted a distraction."

"But—"

"Stiles," she says shortly, quirking an eyebrow in her most dangerous fashion. "What. Do you want."

He swallows heavily. "I. Well, I mean—I wanted to talk to you."

"About?"

"Stuff."

She's getting kind of pissed off here because she _was _just about to snuggle down in her bed and have a really good night's sleep—but then again there's something horribly alluring about Stiles when he's all stuttering and nervous like he is now.

She stares at him for a moment. "_Stiles_—"

"Lydia, why did you break up with Aiden?" he asks abruptly.

She blinks, her hands twisting together behind her back. "Who says I had a reason?" She gives him a bright (and totally fake) smile. "Maybe I was just bored."

"Aiden told Scott that you told him that you needed to sort out your feelings for someone else."

Shit. Shit shit _shit_. "Wait—" she says, hoping she can at least stall for time. "Who said what now?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and takes a step closer to her. "Come on, Lydia. Is it true, or not?"

"Aiden is such a _girl_," she complains, instead of answering. She crosses her arms and looks away from Stiles. The yellow hall light is making his face practically glow, and she can't stop thinking about the way the afternoon sunlight fell on his face in the locker room, like he was some kind of angel in sneakers and a soft jacket. "I hope he didn't tell _everyone_."

Stiles winces. "Well…the way Scott put it, it sounded like the only person missing was Deucalion. Apparently Cora thinks you made a mistake."

Lydia blew a piece of hair away from her face in exasperation. "Wonderful," she said dryly. "Advice on love from a Hale. What could possibly go wrong with that?"

"Wait—" Stiles says, like he's just now realized something. He shakes his head like a dog does when its fur is wet. "So it's true. You _are _trying to sort through—I mean…you have feelings for someone else?"

Lydia purses her lips. "Maybe. Maybe not."

With a huff, Stiles takes another step towards her. "Dammit, Lydia, just tell me. I was going to come see you anyways, alright, even before I knew about the gunshot thing, but I didn't come over here to have you blow me off like we're back in ninth grade again. Things are different now. I…_you kissed me_." And there it is. The words are like a slap to Lydia's face but there's always been something about the way Stiles talks to her when he's annoyed. She likes it. Actually, she really, really likes it. It's refreshing and different and even though he's annoyed, he usually manages to make her smile.

Then again, his words tonight aren't nearly as nice as _Lydia, get off your cute little ass and dance with me_ _now_.

Stiles lets out a shaky breath before closing the remaining distance between the two of them. Without her trademark high heels on, the height difference between them is noticeable and she has to look up at him—she has this insane urge to run the other way, but Lydia Martin doesn't run from her problems.

Usually.

Anyways, there's a difference between avoiding and running away.

Besides, this is Stiles. She shouldn't be nervous.

Then again—this is _Stiles. _She should be nervous as hell (which coincidentally, she is).

She wishes feelings were as simple to understand as math problems.

"You—kissed me," he says again, and there's something very, very bad, but also very, very good about his proximity to her and the timbre of his voice.

"Yes," she says uncertainly. "I did."

"Because of my panic attack."

"Yes."

"But it made you—I mean…I saw the way you looked at me afterwards."

"I was…surprised," she says, and if that isn't the understatement of the year, she doesn't know what is.

"So—I mean…" he pauses, takes a breath, looks like he's about to jump off of a cliff: "Basically I came here to ask if...I mean, I thought that _I _might be the person..." he trails off and takes a second to collect himself. Her hands feel all tingly with anxiety. "Lydia, do you like me?"

He looks so vulnerable asking the question, she doesn't want to lie to him, but her mouth is moving before she can send it the message. "No," she murmurs. The word feels wrong in her mouth. Stiles drops his gaze to the floor.

She opens her mouth to correct her mistake, but nothing comes out. This whole telling the truth thing is a lot fucking harder than she thought it would be in her head.

Stiles is still looking at his shoes, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. It hits her—not for the first time—that Stiles is attractive. Maybe it's his longer hair (she's always liked hair she can run her fingers through), but maybe it's just the fact that she _knows_ him now. And he knows her too. And for the first time since he's been professing his love to her, she's not on a pedestal anymore. He's seen her cry and he yells at her sometimes and they talk about werewolves and she's just Lydia, but he's still here, tripping over his words and smiling at her.

Stiles always smiles at her. It's only recently that she's realized she's been smiling back at him.

"I get it," he's saying. "No, yeah—I totally get it. Sorry if I woke you up—"

"Stiles," she interrupts. He lifts his gaze to her. He's watching her with that look he gets—when he's stripped away every other emotion and left behind just the ones he feels for her. When she's standing this close to him, she can see past the way he lets his eyes rove over her face in this unabashed, completely unashamed way. There's a glint in his eyes—a defiant sort of fierceness in his eyes that's daring her to look away, or pretend like she doesn't understand what he feels.

But the thing is, she _does _understand. And maybe that's what makes everything so hard. She doesn't want to get his hopes up just because she's been having some weird, completely uncalled for feelings whenever she sees him.

"Stiles, you _don't_ get it," she finally says. His eyes widen minutely and she can feel her cheeks redden almost instantaneously. "I mean—God, stop looking at me like that—"

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm trying to tell you something serious."

"So tell me."

"I can't concentrate when you look like that."

"Lydia, I'm not looking like anything! This is my face; this is just how I look—"

"No—"

"Lydia, just tell me! Or so help me God—"

_"Okay_, I'm having feelings about you, alright? Are you happy?"

Her tone is a little bit snappy (like it always gets when she's scared), but it's fine because Stiles looks like he can't comprehend anything at the moment anyway.

"You're having feelings," he repeats dumbly. He staggers backwards a step. "_You're_ having feelings about _me_."

Lydia doesn't move, just continues to stare at him in apprehension. She's vaguely aware that her heart is beating about two speeds too fast, but in the grand scheme of things, that seems like pretty minor issue.

Because she just told Stiles Stilinski that she's having feelings about him.

And now he's grinning like he's just won the lottery and she _knew _this would happen—

"Stiles, wait," she says, holding up a hand as he moves towards her. He looks like he's ready to hug her or possibly kiss her. "I—I don't know like _what kind _of feelings. So just—"

Stiles's brow furrows. "You _don't know_ what kind of feelings you have?"

Lydia shakes her head.

"Well do you like me or not?"

"I don't know."

"How can you _not know_—"

"I don't know, I just _don't_, Stiles!"

He shuts his mouth, but he's still looking at her like he's trying to stare into her soul. Finally he murmurs: "Can I ask you something else?"

She nods grudgingly.

"What do _you_ want to do?"

And of course, that was not what she expected to hear—and that was what was so great about Stiles. He was giving her a choice; he was letting her try to be in control even though these feelings are making her feel completely out of control.

"Well," she says slowly. "If we're being honest—"

"We are," he cuts in hastily.

Despite the fact that she hasn't really been able to breathe since Stiles opened his mouth, she manages a weak laugh. "Right. Well, okay, I mean, I liked kissing you—"

"You liked kissing me," he says in this dazed sort of voice.

He takes a step closer to her and Lydia lets him because she can't remember the last time someone looked at her the way that Stiles is looking at her now. Like she's some kind of precious thing that might vanish from his sight at any second.

His hands find her cheeks and even though he has every right to be shaking and scared and a complete mess like she is, his touch is warm and firm and his eyes are boring directly into hers.

They flick down to her lips.

Her breath catches.

"Stiles…"

He swallows hard. "That's good. Because…because I liked kissing you." He pauses. "You know, obviously."

She laughs softly, but it turns into a gasp as his fingers start to trace along her skin lightly and she sucks in a breath. She lets her eyes fall closed because she thinks that keeping her hormones in check will be easier to do if she can't see the expressions on his face—but of course it doesn't work. Of course the cool touch of his fingers sends tingles shooting through her veins like wildfire, and of course he smells really fucking good and she's suddenly feeling very nervous again. One of hands leaves for a second to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, but it's back to cradle her face in almost no time. His hands are surprisingly gentle for a person who's always so restless and twitchy.

Her eyes are still closed but she can feel his face come closer to hers. His breath ghosts across her mouth, and her lips part of their own accord and her mind has just gone completely, deliciously _blank_.

She feels his hands tighten ever so slightly on her cheekbones, and she wonders if he really _is _going to kiss her. She doesn't know if she wants him to or not. Her stomach does a sort of swooping motion and she can't remember the last time her stomach _swooped_. She feels like her heart might beat right out of chest and land in Stiles's hands.

"_Lydia_," he murmurs, and her name on his lips sounds like a prayer. She shivers again.

In another second his thumbs are gone and his lips are there. His lips are soft against the skin of her cheek and the unexpected pressure of his lips so close to her mouth but also so far away makes her eyes fly open in surprise. He lingers lingers _lingers _there. She doesn't know when Stiles got so bold, but when he finally pulls away and lets out a ragged breath, her eyes are wide, her breathing fast.

She doesn't know where Stiles got the power to _affect_ her so much.

And maybe _that's _what scares her.

He looks down at her, like he looked at her in the locker room after they kissed. She can feel the rapid beat of his heart against her own chest, and she finds that her hands are resting on his chest suddenly. He looks down at her hands for a moment, then back at her.

He hesitates for a moment, just a moment, and then his lips come down on hers.

His mouth presses against hers carefully and firmly, as gently as his hands were touching her seconds before—though it doesn't stay that way for long. His lips move against hers and it's like that movement breaks whatever illusion of soft and sweet he had constructed at first because suddenly his lips are harder, more insistent against hers.

She lets out a pleased, surprised gasp as his tongue runs along her bottom lip and it's like that sound makes something snap inside of him because suddenly his hands are in her hair and he's walking her backwards until she's trapped between his body and her wall.

"Lydia," he says against her mouth.

His tongue swipes along her lip again and she opens her mouth immediately, meeting his tongue with her own and it's quickly becoming the hungriest, most desperate kiss she's ever been involved in—all teeth and tongue and heavy breaths. It's not manufactured or faked in anyway and she doesn't have to tell him where she wants his hands to be, or what she wants him to do because she can't even think that clearly right now. Besides, he's doing a pretty good job all by himself.

His hands have left her hair, but now they're everywhere else, touching her sides, her spine, her waist; the hem of the sweater lifts slightly and his hands are suddenly moving under it, splaying warm and lovely across the bare skin of her back.

His hands slide up and down and back up again and when it registers in his mind that she is wearing absolutely nothing under his sweater, he stills for a fraction of a second. A groan sounds deep in his throat and it makes a _zing_ of desire shoot through her whole body. Then he's pulling her closer to him and kissing her even more frantically than before.

She arches against him and his arms tighten around her; she fists her hands in his hair, kissing him urgently. She imagines that this is the type of kiss lovers give each other when they can't control their passion—but she doesn't really understand why that is because he's not her lover, he's just Stiles, he's just—

His lips move to her jaw, heavy and open-mouthed and clumsy and she sucks in a shuddering breath, sighing out: _"Stiles."_

He lets out a sound that somewhere in between a whimper and a moan. He buries his head in her neck, kissing and sucking, and then: "Lydia," he says roughly against her skin. "I've wanted to do this for so long."

"Don't stop," she murmurs, and dear God, she sounds like she's _begging_. "Don't stop don't stop don't stop—"

He cuts her off with another searing, wild kiss and somehow his hands slide down to the back of her thighs and he hoists her up. Her legs wrap around his waist and his fingers are digging into her skin and Lydia can't stop thinking: _What the fuck. _She doesn't understand how Stiles (goofy, idiotic Stiles) can be so good with his hands and so good with his mouth and so good at _everything. _He can barely even walk down the hallway without tripping over something, and yet here he is making her moan and his tongue is doing wonderful things with hers and he's rocking against her and—

"_Lydi—aa…"_

She thinks that might be one of the most beautiful sounds she's ever heard.

Everything is so completely out of control, but she doesn't even fully register that because everything is Stiles and he's pressing into her everywhere and gasping into her mouth with this sort of eager sound of complete abandon. She tightens her legs around his waist, sliding her hands up under his shirt and _holy hell _he has lacrosse muscles. Not very many of course, but she can feel them, corded and hard under his heated flesh.

She's just about to do away with his shirt for good (and then do the the same with hers) when the front door bursts open and Allison runs inside, yelling something about Deucalion.

Stiles and Lydia jerk away from each other, but they aren't quick enough, and Allison's voice cuts off abruptly as she stumbles to a stop in front of them.

"Oh my—_God_," Stiles says, yanking his hands away from where they rest on Lydia.

Lydia blushes brilliantly, scrambling down away from Stiles, who's trying to hastily adjust his pants, and as if things couldn't get any worse—Mr. Argent is standing behind Allison, gun half-assembled, staring up at the ceiling and looking very much like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Hi," Lydia says sheepishly. Allison looks away from them—looking like she might start laughing any minute as Lydia straightens her—Stiles's—sweater..

"Sorry," Allison says quickly. "I should have—uhm, I guess I should have knocked…"

No one says anything.

"Well…" Stiles chuckles nervously, trying to flatten down his mussed up hair. "This is…sufficiently awkward. Nice to see you Allison. Chris. Can I call you Chris? No—alright, Mr. Argent it is, then—"

"I'm going to wait in the car," Mr. Argent says, turning around and walking stiffly back down the driveway.

Lydia steals a glance at Stiles out of the corner of her eye, trying to tamp down the pull in her heart that's telling her to kiss him again and again and again. She doesn't even know how everything escalated so quickly like it did, but there is absolutely no part of her that even regrets because Stiles is pretty much the best, most passionate person she's ever kissed. Which—she doesn't even know how that's possible so she's really confused and turned on right now.

"Uh, the twins—" Allison broke off, shaking her head in disbelief. "The twins royally pissed off Deucalion. I'm not too sure what happened, but Isaac just called me and said that Deucalion is about to kill Scott, so I thought we'd come over and tell you on our way."

"Is Scott okay?" Stiles asks, his hands clenching nervously by his sides. Lydia has the sudden absurd urge to take his hand in hers until it relaxes, but she pushes it away. She wonders vaguely if Stiles has ever had a girlfriend. It feels like something she should know. He probably has—no one can be _that_ good of a kisser just from practicing with their pillow. The thought that he might have kissed someone else like the way he just kissed her sends a spike of jealousy straight through her stomach.

"Yeah," Allison's saying. "He's hiding at Derek's right now. You guys can meet us there if you want." She looks away again, and this time a mischievous grin is playing along the corners of her mouth. "Just don't take _too _long—"

"Allison!" Lydia hisses.

"Right. Sorry. See you at Derek's."

She turns and dashes away down the driveway, looking tall and warrior-like and beautiful in the silvery moonlight, and Lydia is left with Stiles.

"So," he says, before she can even open her mouth. "That was—uhm…_hot_. Right? Or was that just me? I—"

"No," she says shyly, and Stiles looks like he might collapse with happiness. "It wasn't just you."

"You—" he shakes his head in amazement. "Jesus Christ, you're perfect, Lydia."

She stares at him, trying to decipher if he's being sarcastic or not—but he's completely sincere. "Thanks," she says sheepishly.

"I'll, uhm. I'm gonna go wait in the car," Stiles says, stumbling his way over to her front door. "You need to get dressed right? See you in a minute or two."

She nods her goodbye and is about to turn to climb the stairs, but Stiles catches her hand and tugs her back towards him. He looks like he wants to bend down and kiss her again (and she wants him to also) but then he just wraps her in a tight hug. She turns her head to the side and presses a chaste kiss on his neck and she feels him shudder.

And despite everything she's feeling and not feeling and confused about, there's something relaxing about being held by Stiles.

She thinks she could get used to it.


	2. Chapter 2

_a.n: Hello again! I finally got the chance to finish writing this chapter, so I hope you like it! After this chapter there will be one more. (But don't worry, I have many other Stydia/Martinski story ideas floating around). As always, I don't own the character. :)_

* * *

Lydia dresses up in the morning.

She takes thirty minutes to pick out an outfit, adds extra time to her hair and make-up routine, and by the time she's rooting through her closet for her other green pump, she realizes her stomach is fizzing with nervous butterflies.

She tells herself she's just nervous for the English test she didn't study for. She tells herself it doesn't have anything to do with a certain boy with honey-brown eyes that happens to sit by her.

* * *

"You realize you _are _going to tell me what happened, right?" Allison asks as they sit at a red light on the way to school.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Allison answers darkly. "Just because you avoided my calls and dodged my questions last night doesn't mean you can get away without explaining it."

Lydia puts on another coat of lip gloss and feigns ignorance. "Explaining what?"

"You are going to tell me exactly why, when I walked into your house, I found Stiles practically…_molesting you _in your front hallway."

Lydia scoffs. Allison may be talking in her scary calm warrior voice, but Lydia's pretty sure she can hold up to any form of werewolf torture she'll try to threaten her with. "_Please. _He was not molesting me."

"Ha!" she shouts, and Lydia jumps, smearing a shiny pink line up to her nose.

"Goddammit, Allison—"

"I knew it! If he wasn't molesting you, then that means you _wanted _him to grope you like that!"

Shit. Lydia wasn't prepared for mind games this early in the morning.

She frowns as Allison crows: "I _knew _you liked him!"

"I am not having this conversation with you."

"You like Stiles." The light turns green and Allison turns back towards the road, glancing at Lydia out of the corner of her eye. Lydia refuses to look back.

"I don't know what I feel—"

"_Stiles and Lydia sitting in a tree_—"

"Allison—" Lydia hisses, giving up on wiping away the smudged gloss for the moment. She doesn't know exactly how far bionic hearing reaches, but she knows they're entirely too close to the school and its resident werewolves to be talking—or singing _loudly_—about this subject.

"_K-I-S-S-I-N-G—"_

"_Allison_!"

"Oh, sorry," her friend says, with an impish grin. "Would you prefer _F-U-C-K-I—"_

"Allison, shut _up_!" And now she's really panicking because she can actually _see_ the school in front of them. "Scott is going to hear you! Or—or _Aiden_—who will turn around and _tell everyone_—"

"Lydia—"

"I'll tell you, okay? Just not right now. I'll tell you everything later—"

"Okay," Allison says. She sounds like she feels bad. "Lydia, that's fine. I'll stop."

Silence falls between them and Lydia sighs. "I don't know what I feel," she repeats quietly.

* * *

Stiles is already sitting down when she gets to English class.

Her heart falters for a moment and thankfully he's too busy giving Scott a summary of the literary terms that they're supposed to have memorized, and so he doesn't see her enter. She takes her seat quietly, and occupies herself with looking over her own notes and trying to maintain a normal breathing pattern.

"Oh," he says after a while. He sounds surprised and more than a little nervous. "Uh. Hey, Lydia."

"Hi."

He looks like he wants to say something else, but she tenses and he snaps his mouth shut and looks away.

It's completely, totally, unbearably awkward. It's almost worse than the declarations of love she was prepared to deflect.

It probably would have been best to clear things up between them last night instead of avoiding all of his attempts at a serious conversation, but she supposes it doesn't really matter. It's not like she's planning on kissing Stiles again anytime soon.

* * *

She wants to kiss him again.

She doesn't know why, because he's currently trying to balance a pen on his nose, but she does.

His tongue is sticking out of the side of his mouth in concentration, and it's like her brain has committed mutiny against her because all she can think about is the things his tongue did when it was running along her neck, and the way she felt when it was moving past her lips to tangle with her own—

The pen falls off his nose and he scrambles to catch it, his fingers outstretched and fuck if she doesn't want them back on her bare skin, squeezing her as close to him as he can.

Somehow he manages to catch the pen before it clatters to the floor, and he whips his head towards Scott with the adorable, proud expression fixed upon his face. Scott ignores him, because of his new vow to be an honor roll student or whatever, and Lydia kind of wants Stiles to turn around and meet her gaze instead. She kind of wants to see the widening of his eyes when he realizes that she was already watching him, and the shy smile that would surely curl across his face—or maybe she just wants him to _look _her, because he hasn't really looked at her since this morning before the English test (if those few seconds can even _count _as looking).

He doesn't turn around. Instead he just shrugs and reclines back in his chair, stretching his long legs out under the lab table and tapping his pen against his knee. The image is pleasant to look at; there's something nice about the long, lean line of his body and the careless, natural way with which he moves.

And then he does turn around.

She doesn't know if he can feel her eyes on him, or if it's just habit, but he turns around and their eyes lock. His mouth falls open slightly—and there's the widening of the eyes that she knew would occur; she rolls her eyes at his reaction, unable to keep the small smile off of her face. One side of his mouth quirks upwards, slowly, and then—then he winks at her.

Stiles Stilinski fucking _winks _at her.

She can feel her heart skip a few beats in shock, arousal, _something_, but before she can even fully process what just happened, he turns back around to the front of the room.

And that, more than anything else, settles it.

She _definitely_ wants to kiss him again.

* * *

She spends the whole of lunch watching the way the tendons in his neck work as he debates the merits of _Star Wars_ with Scott.

"Scott!" Stiles is exclaiming in exasperation. "You can't just ignore a _classic_! What are you going to say when your kids come up to you and ask you about it, huh? I'll tell you what you're gonna have to say—you're gonna have to tell them to go ask their Uncle Stiles. Do you really want _me _to be the voice of wisdom shaping their little minds?"

He swallows then, his jaw tensing slightly as he waits on Scott's answer and Lydia shoves a forkful of salad in her mouth to distract herself.

Isaac looks like he's trying not to smile. "He makes a valid point, Scott."

Scott shrugs. "I guess. But then again, my kids might not even be into the nerdy stuff—"

"It's not nerdy!" Stiles interrupts. "It's culture, Scott, _culture_. Come on, someone help me out here—"

She doesn't really mean to do it; it just slips out. One minute she's eyeing his tapping fingers out of the corner of her eye, and the next she's murmuring: "I suggest a new strategy, R2."

The silence that follows is so stunned and complete, it makes her look up.

"What?" she asks defensively, her eyes darting around. Her gaze (of fucking course) lands on Stiles, and if she thought that making eye contact with him again would be a good idea, she was sorely mistaken. His eyes are wide and dark, his lips moving soundlessly. He's staring at her like he's seriously considering attacking her face in the middle of the cafeteria.

Which. You know. She may not be _entirely_ averse to.

She swallows hard. "What?" she asks again. Her tone is softer this time, directed only at Stiles.

He shakes his head, looking like he was just hit on the back of the head. "Uh—you…you quoted Star Wars."

She gives a sheepish chuckle.

"You just _quoted Star Wars_…"

His eyes trail the length of her body, his fingers tightening around a water bottle, and he looks so _hungry _that it makes her heart pound in anticipation. Scott's head suddenly snaps up, and he's looking between Lydia and Stiles with something akin to shock on his face. She remembers that he can like _smell_ _emotions_, so he probably already understands what's happening better than she does.

She rips her eyes away from Stiles's and digs into her salad again, avoiding Scott's blatantly curious gaze until the bell rings.

Stiles has Economics with Scott after lunch, but he still walks her to her AP European History class. He carries her bag for her and they talk about stupid things like homework and how it might rain tomorrow, but Stiles's eyes keep flicking towards her lips and every time their hands brush, a rush of heat shoots through her body. She wonders how there could be so much sexual tension between them when things were so awkward during English class, but doesn't want to ask in case it ruins whatever is happening.

They stop outside of her class and Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and grins shyly at her, and she decides that she really _really_ likes whatever is happening.

...Of course, by the time History is over, she's changed her mind again and has emphatically decided that she doesn't like this, not at all.

Since when does Stiles make her stomach flutter with butterflies? Since when does _any boy _make her feel confused and helpless—and since when are her emotions unidentifiable?

She _hates _feeling out of her depth because she always understands everything with almost painful ease.

And yet, here she is floundering about with her own feelings because of _Stiles_—who is too busy being half dork, half sex god to even care about her mental state.

She rounds a random corner at high-speed and collides into someone much taller and broader than she. For one heart-stopping moment, she's afraid that she's somehow gotten caught in a semi-deserted hallway with Stiles himself, but then the mystery boy apologizes and she recognizes the olive skin and dark eyes and she hates the way she feels a little disappointed.

"Hey Danny," she says on an exhale.

"Hi," he pauses in the act of stepping around her and takes a closer look. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"You don't look fine."

She scowls at him. "Well, aren't you Mr. Observant today."

He shrugs. "So…" suddenly, his grin turns wicked. "Did you have a hot date with your mystery guy yet?"

"My…mystery guy?" She rolls her eyes. "Please tell me Aiden didn't tell _you_ too."

"No; Ethan told me."

"Great. There are two Gossip Girls now. Just what I need."

He laughs. "I'm gonna be late for Band. See you later, Lydia!"

He lopes away, but his words hang around.

_A hot date. _

A date.

And maybe _that's_ what she needs.

Dates were invented so people could get to know each other, right? So people could decode their feelings during dinner and analyze their compatibility and see if things had a chance of working out. It's so simple; so _normal_. It's the type of thing she would've done before she knew werewolves existed, before she knew she was a Banshee, before Stiles was more than just some kid with a crush.

A flash of determination shoots through her.

A date.

* * *

Lydia meets Allison by her car after school, feeling much better about the whole Stiles situation.

"You look happy," she comments.

Lydia smiles primly. "I have a plan."

Then she catches sight of Stiles loping across the parking lot, tugging on the straps of his backpack, and her stomach drops.

She takes a deep breath and tells Allison: "I'll be right back," marching across the pavement to meet him before she can second-guess herself. She's _Lydia_ and he's _Stiles_ and there is absolutely no reason for her to feel nervous.

Except that she does feel nervous.

She feels very nervous.

"Stiles!" she calls out, upping her pace to catch up to his long strides. She doesn't really need too—he skids to a stop as soon as she calls out his name, but she doesn't want to look at him for too long, just in case it makes her brain short out.

She exhales slowly.

"Hey," he says, now that she's only a couple feet away from him. His eyes trace the curve of her lip. "What's up?"

_She has a plan_. She clears her throat; his eyes meet hers. "I have a favor to ask you."

"Yeah, sure, name it."

Her heart gives a painful tug at his willingness to help her, but then she realizes that she would do anything to help him too—that the sixteen hours she thought he might not return from the "dead" were some of the worst hours of her life, and that somehow they've fallen into this pattern where selflessness is normal.

And selflessness has never been a very big part of Lydia's life.

She pushes the revelation away and focuses on Stiles's brown eyes. "I need you to take me on a date," she states.

His eyes widen comically, his voice cracking as he asks: "Uh—wha…what?"

"A date." She straightens. "You and me."

"You…" he lets out an incredulous, breathy chuckle. "Is this a joke?"

"No."

"But—but—but I…uh…I didn't think that you wanted that...?"

She sighs, though it holds no real impatience. "Stiles, I wouldn't ask you if I didn't want to."

"Right. Right." He rubs a hand over his face and chuckles again—except this time a wide, awestruck smile breaks out over his face.

It makes her smile too.

"Right," he says again. "I—God, Lydia of course I'll take you on a date; you didn't really even have to ask. You could've just…you could've jumped in my jeep and told me to take you to…uh—shit, where do you like to go on dates?"

She smiles bigger. "That's for you to know and me to find out."

"I get to pick what we do?" His eyebrows are high on his forehead.

"Don't make me regret it."

"I won't—I _absolutely_ won't. Uh—wow. Okay, I did not expect this." He claps his hands together suddenly, his eyes brightening even more. "I've got it—alright, I know what we're doing. Can you be ready at seven?"

She blinks. "You want to take me out _tonight_?"

The hint of smirk plays around his lips. "Lydia, I've waited for this moment since third grade. I'm not giving you the chance to change your mind."

"But," she struggles to form coherent thoughts. She should've known Stiles would do something like this. "You don't want to think about it at all? Take a few days to plan something out?"

"Today's Thursday, right?"

"Yeah—"

"Yep. I know what we're doing. I'll pick you up at seven o'clock." He gives her lips one last, lingering look before he starts to walk backwards—the kind of look that makes her skin tingle. "Do you want a ride home?"

"No—uh, Allison can take me."

"Alright. See you at seven!" He spins around and trips over his feet, stumbling forward a few feet and catching himself before he can fall directly into the path of an oncoming car. He straightens up and sends her a sheepish look and she can't help but laugh.

"Tonight," she confirms.

His expression makes her feel warm and fuzzy and excited and nervous all at the same time.

She thinks she could get used to it.


	3. Chapter 3

_a/n: Sorry this took a little longer than planned, I'm currently studying abroad so I've been out and about! Thank you thank you thank you to anyone who read, reviewed, followed, or favorited, I really appreciate it! I hope you guys like it; let me know what you think and stay tuned for other stories! :)_

* * *

"Stiles, seriously, where are we going?"

"You wanted it to be a surprise," he says, as they drive straight past the movie theatre. He has the shittiest shit-eating grin spread across his face, like he thinks she'll never be able to guess—and that makes her want to know even more.

Lydia's reluctantly grinning too, but that possibly might just be because Stiles had shown up on her doorstep with a small tulip bouquet, blushing and muttering about how red roses were too cliché, but the sentiment was still the same and he was really sorry for being fifteen minutes early (which didn't even matter because Lydia was—coincidentally, not because she was sickeningly excited—already ready to go).

"_Stiles_—"

"Nope. I'm not saying anything. My lips are sealed."

"That's a shame."

"Wha—?" She arches a teasing eyebrow at him, and he chokes a little bit as he hurries to say: "Unless—I mean well, unless there's kissing involved later. Not that there has to be, you know, I'm totally cool with no kissing; but just in case you want to kiss, my lips will be completely unsealed. Scout's honor."

"Good to know," she murmurs, feeling quietly pleased as a flush creeps up Stiles's cheeks.

He merges onto the highway without saying anything else, and Lydia narrows her eyes. "Are you kidnapping me, Stilinski?"

He lets out a snort. "Yes, because after that god-awful fiasco with Jackson, that's something I've really wanted to try again."

Lydia lets out a breath of laughter, and silence falls between them again. The radio is playing in the background, soft and a little scratchy, and after a minute or two Stiles glances at her out of the corner of his eye, his hands twitching slightly. "You look really pretty, by the way. I can't believe I forgot to say that earlier."

"Thanks." And even though she should be used to his compliments by now, there's still something disarming about it.

He smiles at her, brilliant in the falling dusk, and Lydia wonders why she didn't agree to this sooner.

* * *

They pull into the parking lot of Beacon Hills Boardwalk and Lydia lets out a long-suffering sigh. "I should've known."

Stiles lets out a loud laugh, launching himself out of his car and showing up on the other side to open her door before she can even get her purse from the floor.

She's desperately trying to fight back a smile, but as she steps out into the chilly air, the whirling carnival lights flash before her eyes and the smells of funnel cake and popcorn swirl around her, and she can't help the way her lips curve up.

"Don't pretend like this won't be fun," Stiles warns, shoving his hands into his pockets as they set off towards the entrance. The words send a pain through her heart. It's been such a long time since someone took her on a date just take her on a date—took her a date just to _have fun_ with no expectations for kissing or having sex at the end of the night—and it's nice. It's _really_ nice. And kind of overwhelming at the same time, but in the good way where you can't really talk because your chest is so filled with contentment.

"They have unlimited passes for 50% off on Thursdays," Stiles is babbling happily next to her, bouncing as he walks. "I think it'll be really cool. I haven't been here in a long time, but Scott and I used to come and just go crazy and—you know—I mean, with all the horrible shit we've had to deal with, I figured we could just come and let loose and eat some good carnival food and—"

He breaks off as she loops her arm through his, hugging him to her side and resting her head on his shoulder. She tilts her head to look at him when they come to a stop and he's blinking down at her in surprise, his mouth half-open. This time she doesn't fight the smile that curls her lips. "Thank you, Stiles," she sighs. "Really. This is perfect."

His eyes flicker over her face; the side of his face is flashing yellow and red in time with the swirling lights on top of the ticket booth, but his eyes are still the same molasses color as they always are. He looks like he wants to say something, but ends up smiling softly and (after a second of hesitation) dropping a kiss to the tip of her nose.

Her heart stutters embarrassingly in her chest and she blushes harshly, but before either of them can say anything the ticket lady is screaming, "_Next!_" and Stiles is pulling away and fumbling his wallet out of his back pocket.

He comes back a minute later, his fingertips brushing the thin skin on her wrist as he wraps the orange neon bracelet around her, but whatever moment they might have been having is gone now. Lydia almost wishes it wasn't. "Ready?" he asks impishly as they head towards the park. "I have to warn you, I'll probably kick your ass at that game where you hit the target with the mallet and try to ding the bell."

Lydia snorts. "You'd have to be stronger than me for that to happen, Stiles."

He looks at her, eyes wide in indignation. "I _am_ stronger than you! I'm a lacrosse champion!"

She laughs, re-looping her arms with Stiles and tugging him closer (because the wind is _cold_ and he's surprisingly warm and cuddly). "We'll see."

* * *

Lydia beats him at the game where you hit the target with the mallet and try to ding the bell.

She's not really sure how it happened, but she can't stop laughing because Stiles's face is _priceless_.

"How—how—"

She accepts the stuffed unicorn the attendant gives her happily and turns towards Stiles, still laughing.

"But—how?"

"Oh my—ha ha—_Stiles_—" she wheezes out and _Jesus Christ _she hasn't laughed this hard in _forever_.

"You're _tiny_," he complains in exasperation. "You should not be stronger than me."

She manages to compose herself long enough to seriously say: "Size doesn't matter."

The tips of his ears turn red and she cracks up laughing again.

"My grip must have slipped," he grumbles as they make their way towards the Dungeon Drop. "Or maybe it's rigged—hey, that's a thing, right? It could totally be rigged."

Lydia can't gather enough breath to answer.

* * *

"What's next?" Stiles asks her, his hand resting lightly on her lower back. "Haunted House? Tunnel of Love?"

"They don't have a Tunnel of Love here," Lydia says, rolling her eyes at his puppy-dog expression. "And I want to go on the Carousel. Did you know that used to be my favorite ride?" she asks as they start weaving through the crowd.

"No," he says. "Why isn't it your favorite ride anymore?"

"Well—" she pauses. "I guess it still is. I don't know. I haven't done something like this since I was little."

"I never really had a favorite," Stiles offers. "At least I don't think I did. I just liked to run around everywhere and try to go on every ride before I had to leave."

She laughs, but trails off when she sees a horrifyingly familiar face loitering by a cotton candy cart.

"What the—god_dammit_," she hisses, grabbing Stiles's hand and dragging him behind a dart-throwing booth.

"What's wrong?" he's asking in confusion, stumbling along behind her. "Lydia—what is it?"

She tugs him next to her, before peeking out around the corner of the booth.

"Lydia—" he says again, squeezing her hand.

"Aiden's here," she sighs, turning to face him again.

"What?" he asks in confusion, taking his own peek around the edge. "Where?"

"By the cotton candy."

"Oh come on," he groans. "What the hell are they _doing_ here?"

"_They?"_

He gestures wildly with his free hand. "Ethan's here too!"

"He's _what_?" She shoves her head under Stiles's, feeling the steady press of his chin against the top of her head as she stares in stunned disbelief. Sure enough, Ethan and Aiden are deep in conversation, their eyes sweeping the crowd. "What—are they _spying _on us? Did you tell anyone what we were doing?"

"I texted Scott," Stiles says, sounding incredibly resigned. "He probably told other people and the Alpha Stalkers overheard. God—they're not even _attempting_ to blend in. They're as bad as Derek."

"I cannot believe this. They probably came all the way down here just to see if it was true."

"What—is Aiden like _jealous_ or something?" Stiles asks, sounding completely confused.

"Doubt it." Lydia sighs and hugs her unicorn tighter to her chest. "We both knew it was casual—I cannot _believe_ they are such busy-bodies. Beacon Hills has enough old ladies gossiping over quilting without _Aiden and Ethan_ adding to the pot."

Around the same time as Stiles thumb rubs absent-mindedly over her knuckles, Lydia realizes that she's not angry because she's been caught with Stiles—she's angry because her date is being ruined. Her date, which has up until now, been absolutely perfect and filled with laughter and rides that rip screams from her throat (happy screams, not Banshee screams) and actually—Lydia actually fucking _forgot_ she was a banshee for the hour they've been here together.

She stares at where their hands are still clasped in shock. That's not normal, is it? To have so much fun and be so comfortable with someone that you forget the thing that's been weighing on the back of your mind for weeks?

Her eyes flicker back up to his face and it just _hits_ her.

Yeah, it was scary at first because Stiles saw her; he saw her better than she saw herself sometimes, but she's gotten comfortable with that, and honestly there are 10,000 other things (of the supernatural variety) that are scarier than Stiles's feelings now. And maybe she doesn't love Stiles, but she _likes_ him. She likes him a whole fucking lot if the way she's reacted to his nose-kisses and his regular kisses and his jokes and this whole perfect movie-like date is any indication. And she wants to finish this date. She knows it with a fierce sense of determination that she wants to finish this date regardless of what the Gossip Girls might tell other people because people have been whispering behind her back since Peter Hale invaded her mind and she is _happy _with Stiles and isn't that ultimately the only thing that matters?

She sucks in a breath and tightens her hand around his. "Let's go," she says softly. She feels kind of stupid for taking so long to just _accept_ this, but—

"Alright," Stiles says. He sounds sad. "If we double back, we can probably get out to the parking lot without being seen by them—"

"No, idiot," she mutters, rolling her eyes and taking a step closer (and this time it's not because it's cold). "I want to go ride the Carousel with you."

Stiles blinks. "What?"

"I want to go ride the Carousel with you," Lydia repeats. She smiles at him and it makes his lips curve up too.

"What are we going to do about Thing 1 and Thing 2?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Fine with me," he says suddenly, brightly.

She laughs and lets herself get dragged back out towards the pathway, where Stiles promptly intertwines their hands properly together, so that her fingers fit in the space between his. His hand is big and warm and she honestly has no idea whether Ethan and Aiden see them or not, because Stiles is smiling down at her and he looks really, _really_ good with his cheeks flushed from the cold, and his teeth biting at his bottom lip.

They're standing in the Carousel line when Stiles says "Your hand's _freezing_."

"It's November," Lydia answers with a roll of her eyes. "My whole body is freezing."

With a frown, he lets go of her hand in favor of wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She smiles and turns her face into his neck, laughing when he shudders and complains about her ice-cube nose.

"After the Carousel do you want to take a break and warm up?" he asks, his voice vibrating on her cheek.

She nods.

* * *

It turns out that Stiles's way of warming up consists of buying two cups of hot chocolate, and a large funnel cake to share.

"Food will help," he promises Lydia, around a mouthful of sweet fried dough.

"The hot chocolate will," Lydia acquiesces. "But honestly, Stiles, I don't look like _this_, by eating crap like _that_."

He swallows his food down in one large gulp, giving her the most over-exaggerated, dramatic eye roll she's ever been a recipient of.

"Oh my God, Lydia, come _on_. One funnel cake is not going to kill you."

She eyes it hesitantly, and it _does_ look criminally good. There's powdered sugar sprinkled over the whole thing and it smells like heaven and when Stiles picks up the plate and teasingly waves it in front of her mouth, she caves like a house of cards.

Stiles's shit-eating grin returns.

And for reasons she may never know, Lydia suddenly blurts out: "Everyone's going to think we're dating in the morning."

"Yeah? What do you want to tell them?"

"We could tell them that we are," Lydia says, blushing despite herself.

He takes a huge gulp of his hot chocolate in surprise, wincing as it scalds his throat and Lydia shoves a piece of _glorious lovely holy hell thank you Stiles_ funnel cake into her mouth.

"Wha—what?" he rasps out. She shrugs and Stiles looks at her sharply. "Dating? Like as in multiple dates? Does this mean that you want to go on multiple dates with me?"

She swallows; her throat is suddenly very dry and her hands are very clammy, but tonight has been one of the best nights she's had in a _very_ long time so: "I…yeah. Yeah, I do."

"You do?" he breathes.

"Yes," she nods, and the admission makes her feel freer.

"Oh—wow." He sets his cup of cocoa on the table heavily, looking stunned. "Oh my God—this…I was afraid this might be like only a one-time thing because when you asked me, you called it a favor, not a date, and—uh…holy shit, you really want to date me? Because I would like to date you. I would like to date you a lot—and just so we're clear my definition of dating means that I would be your boyfriend and you would be my girlfriend and you would have to come and eat dinner at my house sometimes and let my dad make stupid jokes and uh, kissing—lots of kissing—but I would also, like, give you piggy backs if you were tired or if your feet hurt from wearing your high heels all the time—"

"Stiles—"

"No, seriously, I am like 3000% down for all of that. And I'm getting better at lacrosse, so you could come to the games and watch me play and be…well, a _little_ bit proud of me—I know I'm not the captain, but still—"

"Stiles…" Lydia kind of wants to cry and laugh and kiss him all at the same time, but he's still _talking_.

"And I would watch those movies you like—I know most of them already because Jackson complained all the time, but honestly, I've already seen the Notebook and I cried a lot so maybe if we could wait on that one for a while just until I feel comfortable letting my masculinity be destroyed in front of you—"

Lydia finally settles on leaning across the picnic table and covering his mouth with her hand, leveling him with the most exasperated, affectionate glare she can manage. "_Stiles_."

"Hmm?"

"I would like to—"

He jerks his head away from her hand. "No! No, wait—I have to ask this…" he clears his throat and reaches across the table to take her hands, running them along her skin until he's sufficiently distracted her from any nerves she may have had. "Lydia…would you like—to be my girlfriend?" He pauses. "Please?"

She smiles. "I would like that very much."

He lets out a _whoosh_ of air that she hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Holy—_God_…"

* * *

They take their hot chocolate on the Ferris wheel and huddle together when the wind whips against their faces on their ascent upwards. In a fit of completely unnecessary chivalry, Stiles had insisted that as her boyfriend, he should carry Lydia's stuffed unicorn for her, so it's tucked under one of his arms and Lydia's tucked under the other.

The Ferris wheel grinds to a halt when they're halfway between the top and the bottom and Beacon Hills is laid out before them, a mass of twinkling lights and dark masses. It looks picturesque and pretty and calm in the moonlight. It looks like a normal town where normal things happen and supernatural creatures don't exist.

Lydia takes a sip from her cocoa and sighs, relaxing into Stiles even more.

"I think I can see my house from here," she says lazily.

Stiles chuckles against her, tracing patterns on her coat with his fingertips. Even though it's two layers of clothing away from her skin, she still feels goose-bumps threatening to rise on her upper arm and _god_ how did things get so intimate and easy between them already?

"Hey, look! I can see my dad," Stiles says, pointing to a spot where red and blue lights are flashing.

Lydia snorts. "You don't know if that's your dad or not."

"Fiiine," he sighs laboriously. She grins against the rim of her cup. "Let's see…I can see Wal-Mart."

She points to it a second later. "So can I."

"I can see the _school_. Bet you can't find that den of horrors so quickly," Stiles says smugly.

Admittedly, it does take her a little bit longer (but only a little bit) and when she points it out victoriously, Stiles groans and sinks down in the cart. "I give up. You're too smart for me, Lydia."

The Ferris wheel jerks into movement again and Lydia squeals in surprise, one of her hands flying out and gripping Stiles's knee reflexively. They spend the next few minutes in comfortable silence and Lydia's almost surprised to find her hand still resting on his leg a few minutes later. When the Ferris wheel stops again, they're at the very top of it, and the view is even more breath-taking.

She can hear Stiles swallow heavily and she tilts her face to look at him, only to find him already looking at her. "What?" she asks.

He chuckles nervously, eyes flicking between her lips and her eyes and she feels the breath evacuate their general area like it's been sucked into a vacuum. Her stomach shudders.

"I just…would it be horribly, terribly cliché if I kissed my new girlfriend for the first time at the top of the uh, Ferris wheel?"

"We've already kissed, Stiles."

"Not as boyfriend and girlfriend, we haven't."

Lydia's hand tightens again on his knee and Stiles swallows heavily again. "I don't think that would be cliché," she answers softly, eyes heavily lidded. "I think it would be kind of romantic."

"_Oh good, me too_," Stiles breathes out, and then his lips are on hers, soft and warm and wonderful.

His hands come up to cup her face and she sighs into his mouth and his whole body shivers. It's not like their frantic make-out session at all—it's slower, more languorous and heady, a mix of warm lips and cold air and hot chocolate and it's _nice_.

He bends his head lower, laves his tongue along a spot under her jaw. Lydia sucks in a breath (she probably won't ever get used to how sexy he can be without even trying) and she turns towards him even more, capturing his lips again firmly before carding a hand through his hair and holding his face to hers. Her tongue teases at his lips until he opens them on a groan and meets her tongue with his and this is almost better than the first time. Spikes of heat are rushing through her and she feels happy and wanted and loved and…

The Ferris wheel starts up again, bringing them back towards the ground, back towards reality, but Stiles lets his lips linger on hers, comes back for onetwothree chaste kisses, lets their breath mingle until Lydia starts to giggle giddily and buries her head in his hoodie and he wraps his arm around her again.

And this time, she _knows_ she could get used to it.


End file.
